sherlockstoryboard

[sherlockstoryboard]

John insisting Sherlock puts on suncream when they travel to Greece for a case because his skin is too pale and delicate and he could get burnt. Sherlock grumbling and huffing but he does it because he is scared of getting burnt.

[sherlockstoryboard]

"Doctor Watson", Mycroft began, in the solemn tone he used when he was about to introduce you to one of his irrevocable decisions. It was usually preceded by a deep, fairly-condescending-but-somewhat-empathetic-sigh; and this time was no different.

"My brother will be going away for a while. He is making preparations for his trip as we speak”, he said, pausing on the word ‘trip’. John had the distinct feeling that wasn’t the term he really wanted to use. “I just thought I would tell you now, myself if you don’t mind, since he will not be able to do so”.

John’s eyes went wide for a split-second. Then they narrowed, and he regarded Mycroft with his own, knowing expression. He’d played these sort of games with him before.

"What are you talking about", he said, slowly. He took a half-step forward - his way of subconsciously challenging his opponent. "What do you mean, ‘trip’".

"The details I’m afraid do not concern you at present", Mycroft replied, elegantly taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out neatly in one of the designated bins on the polished wooden table.

He was smoking. He was calling him ‘Doctor Watson’.

John didn’t like this situation one bit.

"Mycroft, what - this is ridiculous. A trip? Since when-" he stopped, looked down, took a breath that was meant to be calming. "You know it doesn’t work this way. Your methods don’t work with us".

"With us?" Mycroft smiled, lightly. John’s eyes narrowed again.

"With Sherlock. He doesn’t do what you say - he, he knows your ways, he sees right through them. It doesn’t work, and I don’t know why you are doing it".

His hands had balled up into fists without his knowledge. John took another breath, and stood more firmly, set on maintaining eye contact without wavering. This situation was somewhat surreal, yet so very familiar  - he’d almost expected it, he realised, gritting his teeth.

"Doctor Watson, while you are aware that the only person aside of me who I regard of having any sort of acceptable intellect is my brother, I have always been willing to accept you might be able of intelligent thought, too, despite your completely ordinary brain", Mycroft responded, leaning slighly back on his seat, but still sitting up, proudly, as the situation required. "Right now, however, I am starting to doubt this belief. You cannot possibly refuse to acknowledge the kind of situation I am being forced to address".

A flicker of something strange appeared in his features.

"Sherlock will be going away for a while. I am absolutely certain you can understand why. I am also absolutely certain I do not have to add anything else to this conversation".

At that, Mycroft stood - signalling that was to be the end of their encounter, at least as far as he was concerned.

John smiled tightly, torn between incredulity and the anger that was slowly bubbling up to the surface.He looked down; his fists twitched.

"Mycroft, you know I hate these games. I really do. I thought you’d know by now you can’t play them with me".

Mycroft smiled politely - indulgently. "I can assure you I am not playing any games, John".

John’s eyes blazed.

"You can’t - I just." He took another breath. "I just got him back".

Mycroft didn’t react; he just kept staring, his icy eyes almost amused. John felt another wave of anger blaze through his very core.

"Your brother is not something you can ship away, Mycroft!"

"My brother is not something you get back, either, Doctor”, Mycroft interjected, suddenly. John had expected him to let him go on with his silly little rant, believing it completely pointless - yet the older Holmes’ voice held something else now. Something almost like anger, too; like hurt. He seemed almost one octave away from raising his voice; shockingly so.

"You don’t get him back, John. At least not the way you think you do. The way you think you have".

The words felt like a slap in the face. John’s mouth closed, abruptly. His eyes widened, despite himself.

The echo of Mycroft’s voice hung heavy in the air between them. John's mind churned; emotions battled within his chest, so many at the same time, and he hated that he didn't seem to be able to put his thoughts into words. What do you mean? What do you know - what do you think you know about how I'm feeling? Why are you doing this now?

All his questions laid frozen low in his throat; all John could do was squeeze his fists, desperately, and watch Mycroft slowly walk away.

---TBC?